Snow Covered Hills
by SasukeBlade
Summary: After you are offered the job of a caravanner for the town, you are given one week to choose whether or not to accept. It is customary to do this. It is not customary to refuse. Bingo Challenge: Commitment.
1. Monday

For the old Calendar Challenge on ladycordelia17's forum. February's themes were Marr's Pass and growth. The Trinity Tree beat me to this prompt a long time ago; I'm just playing catch up now. Also for my Bingo Card's prompt Commitment.

Summary: After you are offered the job of a caravanner for the town, you are given one week to choose whether or not to accept. It is customary to do this. It is not customary to refuse.

* * *

><p><strong>Monday<strong>

Quinn Riel nearly beats her knuckles bloody on the rough wood of your front door when she comes to tell you the news. She is only a year older than you but she narrows her eyes and looks you up and down when you at last answer, your baby brother on your hip, a burping rag tossed over your shoulder, hair tangled and wild from when he pulls and sucks on it. Your shoulders tense immediately and you shift to block her sight from the rest of the house. Your disheveled appearance is nothing compared to the toys and clothing strewn across the floor behind you, nor the messy toddlers shrieking and playing in the room beyond. Stepping out onto the porch and shutting the door firmly, you await her words.

"Effie wants to see you," Quinn says at last with a shrug. Her mouth is twisted to one side as if holding back one of her many, many opinions. You wish she'd come out and say it, make a crack about your siblings or your poverty or your entire damn life so you could take a crack at her, but she doesn't. Being part of the caravan must have taught her that much self-control, at least.

"For what?" Shifting little Liam over to your other hip, you shush him absentmindedly as he begins to whimper. "I've not much to do with the caravan." Like almost all children, being a caravanner had been a dream of yours that had long since died in the face of your reality. The only monsters you faced down were the ones under beds or in closets.

"Dunno." Quinn looks you over once more and sneers a bit. "But when you do go, leave the pests behind, will you?"

You bristle, but she is already striding away. And what would you do, anyway? Chase her down with Liam held safely in your arms? Cradle him close as you punch her solidly in her smirking mouth? No, this is the way your life is. You've given up a lot for your siblings. Dignity was just one more thing.

* * *

><p>Effie's a woman of contradictions, with her pink skin the color softest carnation petals and her blacksmith's muscles and icy blue eyes. She also looks you head to toe, but her gaze is one of assessment rather than judgement. She nods when she's done, a smile crossing her thin lips. "You'll do," she tells you bluntly.<p>

"I'm sorry?" you manage, wondering what the leader of Marr's Pass's caravan could possibly want with a peasant like you.

Her eyes rove your body again, landing in some key areas, skimming others. At least you've managed to clean up your appearance since Quinn's abrupt visit, hair spikes tamed into the neat topknot most Lilties prefer. "I want you to join the caravan."

At first it doesn't really register, and then it does, but it's too much and you have to remove her words from yourself in order to even think about them. "I can't." They're the first words out of your mouth and you're horrified. Being a caravanner was your dream, hell, it's everyone's dream at some point, and here you are refusing as if she'd simply asked you to go to a festival with her. It's true though. You can't be a caravanner. Who would care for your siblings? And besides, what do you have to offer a caravan anyway? "I'd be useless."

"Dinah," Effie says, "You're an excellent healer, something all too rare in a Lilty. You're also better suited to hardship than any of our other candidates. You're mature, you're steady, you've a cooler head than most. I don't need more fighters; a Lilty caravan never lacks for them."

"I, I really can't," you stammer. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't refuse me yet." Effie knows how to give an order that will be obeyed without question. You shut your mouth with what must be an audible snap. "Take the week. Think about it. Make your arrangements, if you decide yes." She says the last part so casually. There's no real threat to it. No one has ever not said yes. And neither will you.

It was your dream to be a caravanner. How can you not say yes?

But how can you not say no?


	2. Tuesday

I really should be writing a paper. Actually, I really should be writing five papers. I hate you people; I love you people.

* * *

><p><strong>Tuesday<strong>

Mama and Papa don't arrive home until the clockworks have chimed midnight. Their heavy boots make four separate clunks as they are kicked off and dropped to the floor. Mud, dust, and coal billow in with them, fleck off onto the floor with their movements. A day ago you would never have noticed the additional muck attaching itself to your filthy floor, but Quinn Riel's disdain has made you uncomfortably conscious of every speck of grime.

"Welcome home," you say quietly from where you sit at the kitchen table. Your siblings sleep against the other side of the nearby wall, barely a handspan away. Mama jumps a bit, putting a hand to her heart. Papa just measures you with his eyes, then heads to the pump to get himself some water. Dust fills the throat after a day in the mines, something you've thankfully experienced only a few times. Your parents have worked so hard to make sure you'd never spend a day in those mines you didn't choose to, giving up their own dreams in the process.

"Dinah, what're you doing up?" Mama comes around the table to hug you, leaving smudge marks on your shirt. You hug her back, hard, and when you pull away your hands come back blackened. With a few quick wipes your trousers are even dirtier than before, not that it matters.

"Effie offered me a job," you tell them, hands clenched together to keep them from shaking.

"That's nice, dear," Mama tells you, getting her own cup of water. "You've got enough herbs in the stillroom to complete her order?"

Of course she wouldn't understand what you mean. It isn't her fault. The idea of any of you being chosen as a caravanner is so far removed from your reality that it will likely never cross her mind. Of course she would assume Effie's request would be about your apothecary work. In some ways it is, after all.

"No, Mama," you correct her gently. "She wants me to join the caravan."

Papa draws in a loud breath of air that in any other person you would call a gasp. Mama's cup falls from her fingers to clatter against the table. "You told her no, right?"

"I haven't told her anything," you shoot back, stunned. Not even a word of congratulation for you, for this honor. All they can think about are themselves. Immediately your carefully attuned sense of guilt revises that. All _you_ can think about is yourself, your own glory. Your parents are rightfully worried about their other children.

That doesn't mean it doesn't sting.

Mama nods, retrieving her cup, fingers brisk and steady again. "Of course, you have to wait the week." It's as if a crisis has been averted, a disaster passed you all by. She sighs in relief.

"And then you will tell her no," Papa adds. They are the first words he has spoken to you today. What might have been a question or a statement emerges as a command. In his mind you will tell Effie no, because he wants you to, because it is not your choice.

Sometimes you wonder what, in your life, has ever really been your choice.

* * *

><p>Effie summons you once more by way of Quinn Riel. The older girl stands once more on your doorstep a few hours before noon, hands held stiffly at her sides. "You're supposed to come practice with us," she says, lip curling at the thought. "Dress for a fight."<p>

How do you even do that? The only fights you've ever seen have been between two sticky, screaming, squabbling children, and they never wear any particular uniform for that. Patting Liam on his back as he sobs halfheartedly, you look down at your patched and worn trousers, your shirt that has a bit of something—probably spit-up—on the sleeve, and shrug. "Will this work?"

Quinn blinks at you for a moment, then slowly takes in your clothing. She returns to blinking. Finally, shaking her head slowly from side to side, unconsciously (she doesn't even realize how much she disapproves of you. You find that surprising.), she says, "Don't you have any…armor? Leather?"

You shake your own head, and she suddenly seems to realize her own movement, for she stops abruptly. "At least put on some gloves!" she says at last, tossing her hands in the air as if she's given up on you. That's a rather silly thought, though. She'd given up on you yesterday, maybe even before there had ever been the possibility of you being her equal.

* * *

><p>You do manage to find some leather gloves. They reek of mint and sage, as those herbs are what you last worked with in the stillroom. Perhaps no one will notice they are mere gardening gloves. Well, perhaps no one will <em>say<em> anything.

…Well, maybe Effie will stop Quinn Riel before she says too much.

Your neighbor offered to take Liam off your hands, so at least you're not toting a baby to caravan practice. No, you're bringing the terrible two. You had no choice. The neighbors know better than to take Misha and Karl, even for a few hours.

At least they'll be sure to find something to do out in the scrubland on the outskirts of town. There's plenty of critters to chase, bugs to torment… so long as they stay close, you're sure they'll be fine. Maybe.

You hear the caravan before you see them. A high-pitched voice gives a shout of triumph as another cries out; it sounds like they've already started practice. Dueling, perhaps? You don't even own any weapons! Suddenly you are all too conscious of what you do have: gardening gloves, a patched up pack of herbs and bandages, two children in tow in one hand and…how could you have ever thought that was a weapon?

A rustle in the brush, and before you can draw back Quinn comes rolling out of a thicket, scratches and a scowl across her face and a dagger held close to her chest. She springs to her feet, facing in the direction where you heard the shouting, then turns to you.

"Good of you to show up," she says loudly. Then she takes a closer look, a harder look, and lets out an even louder laugh. "Is that…a frying pan?"

More rustles as the rest of the crew seem to materialize out of the scrub and low trees. One Lilty lad who is younger than you, named Jan but known more commonly as Frog, digs his spear into the dirt and sighs long and loud. "Babies and a frying pan? Effie, we need a healer, not a housewifey."

You bristle, humiliated. It isn't as if you can afford a spear like his, or a magnificent mythril glaive like Effie's famed weapon. It's only been a day. You've never held a weapon in your life. At least you brought _something_.

"Dinah has many responsibilities, which she tries to carry out as best she can. All of you could learn from her _housewifey_ example," Effie's calm, clear voice carries over the muttering of her caravan. She gives orders like she was born to it. "We'll be teaming up this round. Ethel, you take Dinah and Will. Quinn and Frog, you're with me."

* * *

><p>Practice ends an hour after you promised the neighbor you'd be back. You hurry through town, ignoring Karl's never-ending whine and Misha's tears. They should have taken their nap two hours ago; you'd never thought a simple training session would take so long. Resisting the urge to snap at the pair of them takes every ounce of strength you have left. While they were off chasing bugs and squirrels, you were getting smacked around by the bitter and irritated duo of Quinn and Frog, and then being lectured about the smacking from Effie or Ethel. If Will had added his two pence, you'd probably have given up and died then and there. But no, he seemed like the strong, silent type. Actually, thinking back, you're not sure if you ever heard his voice at all.<p>

When Liam sees you in the doorway of the neighbor's house, he bursts into tears and raises his arms to you. Despite your aching arms you swing him up to your shoulder, cuddling him close. You were only gone for four hours. How would he react if you were gone for a year?

You carry him home, putting the three to bed for a quick nap. They'll be up a little later tonight than usual, but you're always up late anyway. Maybe for once they'll get to see Mama and Papa when they come home. As for you, you collapse into a chair, closing your eyes and replaying all the moments from practice where the caravanners looked at you with respect, especially that moment when you deflected Quinn's dagger with your pan and Effie applauded. It only takes a few minutes for you to fall deeply asleep.


	3. Wednesday

**Wednesday**

* * *

><p>Karl and Liam go down for their naps easily, but Misha fusses, and for the sake of the other two, you take her with you into the small, grey, ramshackle backyard shed that functions as your stillroom.<p>

She's much more tractable without a sibling to fight, so she sits cooperatively with her favorite dollie in a corner while you throw together a few concoctions. You only do this work on request, as there isn't time or place to make a business of it. Sad—you could make money from it, maybe, make a life.

Despite your family's needs, you are still considering this decision. Part of it is pure rebellion—this is _your_ choice and they will not make it for you. Part of it is your need to truly weigh the options and choose the best path. Yet another part is the rebirth of your dream. Every child dreams of being a caravanner. Every single one. They are your heroes. They are the most highly respected members of the village.

Stewing over these thoughts in the same way as the herbs in your pot is not conducive to a happy life. You already know what the decision should be, and yet—

And yet. These are the facts.

Karl and Misha are two, Liam less than a year old. It would not be good to leave them home alone for another ten years.

In ten years, you will be twenty six years old.

This of course, relies on all three children attending village school, for which your parents could barely afford the tiny fee for you alone. So you will be homeschooling them until the age of fourteen.

At this point, you will be free to start your own life. Begin your own household, start an apothecary, marry, have children of your own. But being free to do something does not mean one is able to.

You will be thirty years old. You will have very, very little money at best and only the clothes on your back at worst. Perhaps you could marry someone richer, but when have you had the time to socialize?

You will need money to purchase a shop, so once the children are old enough to care for themselves, you will remain here doing stillroom work to save up.

If you are lucky, you will move out of the house by the age of thirty five. By then, your parents would likely be sickly, aged too quickly by the mines, their bodies beaten down over the years. At that point, you might as well stay and care for them until they die and the house is yours. Poverty is a cycle—it ends the way it began.

Or, you could join the caravan. In a decade, you would have enough money to retire and never work a day of your life again. In half that time, you could purchase both a shop and a new home. You would always have business—your reputation made with your name in the annals of history.

Papa would be furious.

You would be free.

Mama would be devastated by your seeming betrayal.

You would be true to yourself.

Misha and Karl would miss you.

You would make a future and a fortune.

Liam would never really know you.

You would make a life for yourself.

There is no easy answer. There is no reconciling of these sides. You wish your parents could see what they are asking you to give up for them. That it is more than just a child's daydream. That it is a whole life you could have had. You wish that they would appreciate in some way this sacrifice.

They don't.

* * *

><p>When the knocking at your door comes later that afternoon, you're not surprised to find Quinn Riel tapping her foot on the rickety porch as well.<p>

"What, no baby in your arms?" she asks, one perfect eyebrow raised high with sardonic expectation.

You gesture for her to come inside. You'd been embarrassed by the mess before—it's easy to live in it when no outsiders are around—but maybe she should see what it's like so she can tell Effie you're needed here, really.

To your surprise, Quinn plops right down on the floor where Karl and Misha are playing with rag dolls, taking the spot you'd had only a minute ago. "What're your babies' names?" she asks them, and then coos appreciatively over Baby Gollywhumper and Baby Mishy-Mishy.

After a few minutes of playing she excuses the two of you to the other side of the room, where you both gingerly sit in the rickety chairs that surround the kitchen table.

"Kids aren't so bad," she remarks, watching the terrible two behave themselves for once.

Stay for more than five minutes and find out how bad they can get, you think. Even Liam is quiet, teething on a wooden block under the table. If only it could be like this more often. Maybe you'd never have even considered leaving. Instead, you say, "Try raising three that aren't yours."

""That's what's holding you back?" Quinn asks. For once there is no disgust on her face, only curiosity. Your life is so foreign to her, more foreign than even the strangers of all the other towns she must have visited.

"Ain't been a week yet," you say, shrugging as casually as you can. You can't let her see how it hurts to defend yourself from the inevitably crushed hope.

She shrugs. "Formality. Most agree first day."

This silences you. Liam latches onto your foot, trying to teeth on your toes. You jostle him lightly, wincing. Those baby teeth are sharp! Finally you shrug. "No money."

Quinn nods, seemingly appraising your situation. As her gaze roves about your tiny home you cannot help but follow it, from one corner to the next, from Karl to Misha to Liam, to the pile of dirty clothes you haven't managed to wash today (as soon as Karl woke up, peaceful chores were over). You wonder what she thinks, then remind yourself how little her opinion really matters to you.

She takes a deep breath, then deliberately turns her body to face you straight on. "Dinah," she says, "I think you have a lot of excuses."

You flush bright red, Lilty temper flaring bright as Quinn's own, and instantly forget how little you should care for what she thinks. "You don't know anything about me."

She raises both eyebrows and you wish you could rip them off. "Don't I?" she asks rhetorically. "You have a lot of reasons not to go. I understand that. But that doesn't mean they're good reasons."

"Good—good reasons?" you can't help but splutter. Because your entire life, your family, their needs, their lives—those aren't good reasons? You could shake her, or truly wallop her with your frying pan. You grit your teeth, hard. "You don't know a damn thing about me, Quinn!" The moment you say it, you regret it. Karl and Misha are at the perfect age to begin mimicking everything they here.

She laughs, her own infamous temper finally matching yours. "I know more than you think. You want to go. You want to come with the caravan. Don't deny it."

"I never did!" you retort.

"You're an adult!" she nearly shouts, then shoots a guilty glance toward the twins, who are watching you both cautiously. Lowering her voice, she says, "Dinah. You are a grown woman. You can make your own choices about your own life."

But a life does not stand alone. How many lives does your own intersect, intertwine? How many would your absence wound? How many would struggle without your presence?

You look away from her too convincing face. You ignore the way her eyes glow with conviction. You ask her to leave.

She does, but only after extracting a promise from you to meet her tomorrow in the village square.


End file.
